


Ain't Misbehavin' {I really don't think we are}

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [7]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: Now all he wants is to jump into bed, pull the covers up, and shut his eyes. After a shower. Maybe. The shower is negotiable. After he sleeps for about a hundred years, he’ll go off in search of Rissy and some Vat 69. In that order. Probably. He’ll definitely need a shower before he finds her. He’d be embarrassed to hug her, kiss her, smelling like this; it’d scare her off. The remnants of grease still stain the edges of his face. His armpits stink. He’s itchy.She’s seen him in his dress uniform, clean and well-groomed, in his OD’s, maybe a little dirty, messy, or in careful disarray that she seems to find adorable. And she’s seen him first thing in the morning, but that’s different. She’s seen him drunk and sober, joking and thoughtful. He doesn’t need to put up a front for her, and it’s great. But she’s never seen him like this, and he’d rather keep it that way.His thoughts aren’t really making sense and he could fall asleep standing up.
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Original Female Character(s)
Series: In the Mood [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/871698
Kudos: 2





	Ain't Misbehavin' {I really don't think we are}

He’s never felt so dirty in all his life. Filthy and sticky and in desperate need of a shower. Every part of his body aches. Nix is only twenty-five but he feels about a hundred years older. A shower and then bed might help with that, but who knows if he’ll be able to sleep. His mind won’t stop even when his eyelids can barely stay open. When he falls asleep due to sheer exhaustion, the dreams are ungodly. The little bit of sleep he does get is restless, fragmented, broken, and never deep enough. It’s probably like that for everyone. It must be, it can’t be only him.

Nix trudges along, head down, dragging his feet. Dick slogs on next to him, all the neat spit-and-polish worn away. He looks like he’s wading through mud. Under the honor and discipline, Dick’s still human, even though he tries his best not to let that show too much. Morale and all. He knows they all need someone to look to, rely on, trust, so he does his best to fill that role, and not just because he should but because he wants to. Right now, alone with Nix, he looks like a tired kid and there’s no reason to hide it. They walk along in silence, not needing to talk. Dick claps Nix’s shoulder wordlessly when they reach the corner where they part ways. Nix watches him soldier on for a moment before continuing his own slow progress. It’s not much farther now and he can finally lie down.

God, it’ll be fantastic to wash his greasy hair, put on clean underwear. Basic hygiene never seemed like a luxury before. How in the hell did he end up here? For fuck’s sake, he grew up with a literal silver spoon in his mouth. Then he went through basic, OCS, he’d run up and down that fucking hill about a million times. He wasn’t the same man after all that. He learned how to jump out of a plane; only back then, he’d been jumping into safe, green fields. There was no way to explain what it’d be like when it was no longer an exercise, and even if they tried, it’s not the kind of thing you can understand until you do it yourself. There’s no frame of reference when it comes your first time jumping out of a plane into enemy territory. You know there will be a snap and a sharp upwards tug, a rush in your ears, your will boots swing in the empty air and the ground will rise up to hit you. What comes after that is the real test. You do what you have to do because it needs to be done; you break it down into individual steps, you keep moving.

Now all he wants is to jump into bed, pull the covers up, and shut his eyes. After a shower. Maybe. The shower is negotiable. After he sleeps for about a hundred years, he’ll go off in search of Rissy and some Vat 69. In that order. Probably. He’ll definitely need a shower before he finds her. He’d be embarrassed to hug her, kiss her, smelling like this; it’d scare her off. The remnants of grease still stain the edges of his face. His armpits stink. He’s itchy.

She’s seen him in his dress uniform, clean and well-groomed, in his OD’s, maybe a little dirty, messy, or in careful disarray that she seems to find adorable. And she’s seen him first thing in the morning, but that’s different. She’s seen him drunk and sober, joking and thoughtful. He doesn’t need to put up a front for her, and it’s great. But she’s never seen him like this, and he’d rather keep it that way.

His thoughts aren’t really making sense and he could fall asleep standing up.

Oh God, bed, bed, bed. The shower can wait. It would take too much effort. He’s not even sure he’ll take these fucking filthy OD’s off first. Someone can change the sheets later. No, he’ll have to do it, won’t he? Lewis Nixon III, who used to sleep on nothing but fine cotton, who could shower as often as he wished, who never smelled objectionable, who had his pick of creature comforts. What the hell happened to him?

He’s nearly at his billet. It’s a new place; that big, roomy house has been commandeered for another use, and now he’ll be in someone’s home. They’re probably waiting to show him upstairs to a guestroom or converted sewing room. He hopes to God they won’t subject him to introductions and polite conversation over tea and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There are only a handful of people he could stand to be around for more than five minutes right now. Most of them are as tired as he is, and the only one he’d really like to see must be either at work or on her way there.

The Millers’ house isn’t far from here, it’s actually just a few blocks of widely spaced houses away. He’d only have to take a left turn and then a right to get there. Rissy walks down this same sidewalk on her way to the hospital. He’s reversing her footsteps. The thought is oddly comforting.

Nix can hardly keep his eyes open, they squeeze shut even further when he yawns. He’s still rooted in the middle of the sidewalk with his mouth open and eyes closed when he hears it, a sound somewhere between a sharp exhale and a strangled ‘oh.’ A grin spreads across his face. It sounds like her feet hardly touch the ground. Nix holds out his arms in anticipation and she throws herself into them. He breathes in fresh laundry just before her mouth find his. The most welcome voice in the world whispers his name against his lips, in his ear. Not Nixon or Lewis or even Nix, just Lew over and over. She’s crying; her tears are on his face. The kisses taste like salt until her tongue is in his mouth and then they just taste like Rissy. Her heart thuds against his chest and her hands flutter all over him. She’s making sure he’s alright. He’s trying to keep her as close as possible.

“Thank God, oh Lew, thank God.” She pulls back with difficulty; she wants to hold him and look up at him at the same time. Her upturned face is faintly smudged with his greasepaint; she’s got raccoon eyes. She’s gorgeous.

“Oh, my baby, it’s okay. I’m okay. Are you?” He murmurs the words into her throat, into her hair. She’s so soft and clean. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine now.” Her voice shakes and she pulls him closer. Her nose is perilously close to his underarm.

“I’m sorry, I stink.” God, this is embarrassing. He shouldn’t care, not now and not with her, but had he ever met any girl reeking of stale sweat and covered in grime? Let alone a girl who makes his heart pound with nothing more than her eyes? No, he’d either be well-groomed, smelling subtle and expensive, or undone and casual but scrubbed clean. Now, a young lady might find him a tad--let’s say…odiferous--in the morning, but he’d never start out that way. Upon waking alcohol might be wafting from his pores and he’d need to brush his teeth, but by the time it got to that point, he and his bed-mate would be well enough acquainted that she couldn’t really hold it against him. Especially if he made sure she had a good time the night before.

When Nix went out he was smooth and polished, charming, amiable, attentive and generous, not exhausted and covered in dirt, sweat, and God-knows-what-else.

Rissy cares about him, not just the trappings. Her reply warms his heart. He still thinks he smells God-awful though.

“It’s not _that_ bad. Besides, do you think I care? You’re here and that’s all that matters.” She’s not lying, she really means it.

“Oh, Rissy, my baby.” Her hair is silky under his lips. He stays there with his forehead pressed to hers. The gesture is certainly a cliché, sappy for sure, but he simply doesn’t want to move. Nix doesn’t care that they’re out on the street, not today. Besides, by now, enough people know that she’s his girl to make their attempts at secrecy nothing more than a pretense. Anyone looking today can just turn his head and mind his own damn business. Eventually, Rissy clears her throat, and Nix shuffles his feet. He pulls back to look down at her. “Really? I’m disgusting.”

“You’re not and I wouldn’t mind if you were. Really. You smell like you. And I happen to like that. More than I probably should.” Her fingers slide along his jaw. “You look so tired. Go home and go to sleep. Go to bed.”

“I can’t refuse a pretty woman telling me to get in bed.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Her expression tender, full of love. Has anyone else ever looked at him like that? If they have, he can’t remember.

“I know.” They might as well be the only two people on earth. She’s the only person in the world who matters. Her eyes are sweet and dreamy and full of tears. “Rissy, I--”

“Shh.” Her finger across his lips. That’s fine. He’s not sure what he was about to say anyway. Maybe it was the one thing he’s been afraid to say--and filthy and half-asleep in the middle of the sidewalk is no place to say that, especially for the first time. “Go rest, get some sleep, and I’ll see you later. You know where I’ll be.”

“Okay.” He yawns.

“I have to go.” Her eyes cling to his face.

He pulls her aside, guiding her until her back is against the wall and his is to the street. Nix tips Rissy’s chin up. This is no polite greeting; if they were somewhere with any semblance of privacy it would be an invitation he’d enthusiastically accept. Again, who cares? Today they have an excuse. Eventually, Nix has to be the responsible one, as Rissy doesn’t seem inclined to care that improper is becoming frankly disgraceful. He tries to straighten up but she comes with him. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth and sighs. Her fingers clutch at his filthy OD’s.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Okay, then. I’m not.”

“You’re going to be late and I’m dead on my feet.”

She squeezes his hand. “Dream of me.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yeah.” The stupid sun has no business being so bright. Rissy cups his face. Her cheeks glow pink under their sprinkling of freckles; her eyes are wide and shining. She’s adorable and she’s his.

“Come find me once as soon as you wake up.” She puts a tiny peck on the tip of his nose.

“Now that you can bank on.”

She smiles and kisses his cheek, then she goes her way and he goes his. He watches her walk away and waves when she looks back over her shoulder. She turns the corner and Nix finally sets off, no less tired but…simply happy.

Nix’s new billet is a squat, ugly little house, mustard yellow with white trim. The couple who own it are waiting for him, the door opens before he can knock. There are no miniature sandwiches or cups of tea, just a few minutes of quick introductions and hand-shaking. They are polite but aloof and austere. Nix gets the sense he will be more than tolerated but less than welcomed. He gets a quick tour before the husband shows him upstairs and to a small, neat bedroom. He tells Nix good-night and shuts the door. They seem alright, not warm and familial the way the Millers are to Rissy, but pleasant enough.

Nix is finally, blessedly alone and there is nothing left to do but get in bed. The twin mattress is decent and the sheets are clean. The pillow is a bit flat, but Nix is past caring. He pulls his boots off and lets them drop to the floor. He does fall asleep in his clothes, waking up at some point to fight his way out of his shirt and again later to peel his socks off with his toes. His eyes barely open. Taking off the pants seems like too much effort, so he leaves them on. His undershirt stays on, too, but it comes untucked. Nix sleeps the rest of the morning and into the afternoon.

He finds a hand-written list of rules on the desk when he wakes up. His heart sinks a little. It’s like being in a dorm again. Of course, he should be grateful. And he expected to pick up after himself in someone else’s house. He knows how to be a houseguest. It just rankles.

Nix sighs and stretches before heading to the bathroom. The hot water feels like Heaven. He shampoos and scrubs, watching dirty water swirl down the drain. He towels off and brushes his teeth. His clean skin looks pale after being covered in dirt for so long. When he’s dressed in clothes that couldn’t stand up and walk away on their own, he goes off in search of Rissy.

* * *

He sees her before she sees him. Actually, she doesn’t see him at all as she’s busy with a patient and a doctor who looks like he might not be old enough to shave. Rissy looks angry, with her chin thrust forward and her eyes narrowed. Nix wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her glare. Her hands--the ones that are sweet and teasing and comforting and loving, _provocative_ , when she’s touching him--are currently all business. Nix can’t really see what’s happening, but it can’t be good. It’s fascinating in a morbid way, watching her work. He’s never doubted that she’s capable, but it’s another thing to see it.

“Doctor--” You’d have to be deaf not to hear the warning note in Rissy’s voice. The doctor looks like a deer in the headlights. He hesitates, looks around for help.

“Doctor!!” Rissy sounds shrill, something Nix has never heard from her. The strident note carries, and another doctor, Rissy’s friend, rushes over with a nurse. They push the first physician aside. Someone pulls a screen, and the rest is hidden from view. The younger doctor stands there for a moment until someone touches his arm, asks a question, and they move on. Rissy’s patient gets wheeled away surrounded by his contingent of medical personnel. Nix has seen enough. He’ll find somewhere to sit and wait. There were benches outside.

Nix doesn’t especially mind waiting outdoors, it’s a nice afternoon and no one’s asking anything of him. He smokes his cigarette and looks up every time someone exits the building. Rissy comes along not quite thirty minutes later. She still doesn’t see him; she’s pushing the hair out of her eyes. There’s a tiny smear of blood on her cheek, up high, close to her ear. She’s almost past him when Nix reaches out to stop her. He plucks at her dress and lets his hand rest lightly on her hip.

“Hi,” he says softly. She doesn’t reply, just smiles down at him. That’s answer enough. “May I escort you home, miss?”

Rissy nods and holds out her hand.

Nix falls into step beside her. He laces his fingers between hers. Who fucking cares if anyone should see? He’s spent the last month in the company of men who were just as dirty and sweaty as he was. That’s leaving out every other God-forsaken thing he’s seen and done. Now he’s walking with a pretty girl on a sunny afternoon. It’s nice to feel like a man again, not just a soldier.

Rissy clatters up the stairs to change her clothes and wash her face, leaving Nix to wait again. He feels rather like a school-boy sitting with the Millers. He feels that way even more so when Rissy come back. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing. She’s got on the same pink dress she was wearing the night he climbed through her window and they’d done all kinds of things to each other. The memory provides stark contrast to the floral teacups and polite conversation.

Mr. Miller asks if he’d like to stay for dinner; Mrs. Miller hisses in a stage whisper that Rissy might like some time alone with her young man. Mr. Miller shakes his head and pats Mrs. Miller’s hand. Her eyes twinkle and she winks at Nix, a co-conspirator. She clearly loves Rissy, and Lise, and she’s at least fond of him.

* * *

Nix takes Rissy to the same place they’d gone for the last-hurrah dinner party. That was the night he’d kissed Rissy on the dance-floor amid cat-calls and laughter. Tonight they have a tiny table tucked away in the corner instead of a large one in the middle of the room. A single candle flickers over a vase of slightly wilted hydrangeas. Rissy is prettily flushed after a drink or two. It’s a quiet tonight, no live music or dancing. That’s alright, it only makes it easier for them to whisper back and forth. Nix can’t stop touching her. Rissy doesn’t mind, in fact she does the same thing. It’s nothing more than hands and arms, and feet under the table. The food is warm and the coffee is hot, the dessert is shared. There’s not much left to do once they’re done eating. The only movie playing is not one either one of them wants to see, and Nix doesn’t really feel like going somewhere else for more drinks. Rissy whispers that she wants to see where he’s staying. He laughs at her a little, not unkindly, and she blushes red.

There’s no one there to see that he takes her upstairs to his homely bedroom. Or that the dress Rissy put on less than two hours ago quickly ends up crumpled on the floor. Or that Nix’s clothes quickly follow suit.

She curls toward him under the sheets, dressed in nothing but underwear. Nix and Rissy face one another, barely touching. She smiles and her nose wrinkles. She really is adorable. She has no idea just how appealing she is.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmurs. Nix never was one for following rules. He can rationalize breaking them outright and lead them through creative loopholes. No blind obedience for him, no. Obviously, since he’s got an almost-naked girl in his bed who’s not supposed to be in his room even if she’s completely dressed.

“None of us are supposed to be here, Lew.” Rissy unclips her bra, twists to slide out of her panties, then she tugs at his boxer shorts. Still, it stays relatively innocent, until she finds the spot under his ear, the place that makes him shiver. She pushes him gently onto his back, settling over him. “But I think I belong right here. With you.” Rissy buries her face in his throat.

Her curves are warm and smooth under his mouth and hands, her lips and fingers play over his skin. She reaches behind herself to stroke him up and down, twisting and squeezing until he’s thrusting into her hand.

“You’re so hard.” Rissy’s voice is husky. Her canine presses into her lower lip, creating a dimple.

“Well, I’m here with you. And you’re naked.” Nix groans and Rissy laughs, silky and low. “And you’re touching me.”

“Do you know how much I want you?” she asks. He doesn’t have to guess at that. He can feel the heat and damp on his belly.

“Not as much as I want you.” There’s no mistaking that he wants her very, very much, she’s currently holding-- _fondling_ \--the evidence. His voice comes out in short pants. God, what she’s doing is distracting. He doesn’t want to come in her hand.

“I can tell.” Rissy’s trying to sound arch, but her voice trembles. If they both moved just a little…

She’s so soft under his hands, no scrapes or scars, or powder burns. She’s never had dirt ground into her skin, never had grease smeared across her face. She smells like soap, not cordite. She’s warm and welcoming and much-more-than-willing, and not just about the physical part either. She wants him, but she wants _him_.

Nix nuzzles into her throat, into the loose strands of her hair. Rissy gives him just as much as she takes, whispering and kissing while her hands move over him. He pushes her back so he can see her face. She looks right back at him, holding his gaze Her lip trembles. Nix’s eyes lower to the delicate line of her collarbone. Fragile girl, she could be so easily hurt, and she has been, hasn’t she? What would she do if something happened to him? She needs him, maybe almost as much as he needs her. There’s no laughter on her face now. Can she possibly know what he’s thinking? Maybe she does.

Rissy’s lashes flutter on her cheeks, and then she’s on him, feeding on his mouth like she’s starving. His breathing is just as harsh as hers. Rissy’s chest heaves against his and Nix clutches at her hips, fingers digging into yielding curves. Her arms slip around his neck, she stretches out along the length of his body. His cock pokes between her legs and Nix makes a sound that seems pathetically needy even to his own ears. Rissy whimpers back. She’s slick and wet, so warm, and Nix knows that it’s because of him, and better than that, it’s only for him. He lets out a groan. Her movements are tiny and deliberate and he can only stand it for so long. He rolls over so she’s under him, because, after all, that’s what she wants. Nix is more than happy to give it to her. Their arms and legs are tangled together.

There are no games tonight. Rissy whispers his name over and over, telling him that it feels so good, he feels so good inside her. Nix moves achingly slowly until Rissy’s almost begging, please, please, _please_. How could any man deny such a request? She moves with him and Nix murmurs encouragements and compliments, letting is hands and mouth wander.

Rissy might know his favored spots, but he knows her, too. She starts to tremble just a little, her hands grasp at nothing. Rissy’s almost purring; it vibrates against his chest. Her head turns from side to side on his flat pillow and a gorgeous pink flush creeps upwards from her chest. Rissy’s eyes are screwed shut when she cries out his name. He watches her, fascinated, until she reaches for him weakly. She plucks at his arms and shoulders and Nix lowers himself down.

The air around Rissy is warm. She’s loose-limbed and pliant under him, rocking with his movements. He’s beyond self-control; Rissy grabs his ass and that’s it. He groans out her name and she pulls him closer while he comes inside her. Nix is breathless and shaking when it’s done. His head rests on her shoulder, she plays with his hair and she kisses his brow.

This isn’t just sex, it’s love-making. He’s not such a cad that sex was ever meaningless--it just wasn’t like this. And that’s because--he loves her and he has for a long time. He knew it before that spring day they went out for candy and ended up with something just as sweet and much more satisfying. But he’s _in_ love with her. Hopelessly. Pathetically. Completely.

Nix shifts and Rissy sighs--she hates that part, the feeling of emptiness after being full. Nix doesn’t go far, only moving to lie on his side. His ass cheek ends up in a cold, gelatinous puddle. The bed is a goddamn mess.

He scoots out of the wet spot, crowding Rissy and kissing her mouth.

“Hi, my baby.”

“Hi, Lew, sweetheart.”

“You are such a good, good girl. Do you know that?”

“Thank you.”

“Do you feel better now?”

Rissy yawns and moves closer. That’s a yes. He hopes she feels as content, safe, wanted, loved as he does.

Nix is about to doze off when a car door slams outside. His eyes widen and he shakes his bed partner awake. Her eyes fly open, too. Nix and Rissy scramble into their clothes and hurry down the stairs. All their buttons are done but Rissy’s makeup is smeared and her hair is a bit too messy for someone who’s only been sitting respectably on the sofa. It earns them skeptical glances when Nix makes introductions. He and Rissy are both adults, surely it can’t be that bad that he and his--girlfriend?--are home alone. He’s twenty-five, after all. And they can’t know he has a wife on the other side of the Atlantic. Still, it’s his first day here, and it’s only prudent to be well-behaved when the occasion calls for it. He excuses himself to escort Rissy home. Neither one of them miss the glance that passes between husband and wife. Nix is certain further discussion of the house rules in his very near future.

He won’t worry about that now, not walking with Rissy under a summer moon. It’s barely nine o’clock and he’s not going to waste the rest of evening.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller are more accommodating than Nix’s hosts. Their front room is comfortable and friendly, and no one looks sideways when Rissy sits close beside him. After a while, Mr. Miller retires to bed, but Mrs. Miller doesn’t. She makes frequent trips to the kitchen and makes plenty of noise before she bustles back in. Rissy giggles silently and shakes her head; she murmurs to Nix that Mrs. Miller is a proponent of love.

That good lady catches Nix eying the piano and asks him if he plays. He answers her yes, and that’s how he ends up accompanying her while she sings. Mrs. Miller has a surprisingly pleasing, rich voice. She sings quietly at first and gets progressively louder before she shushes herself and Nix--this happens more than once, and every time, she says ‘Oh, Ernie’s sleeping!’--she lowers her voice but her volume slowly raises again. Finally, she says good-night and gently tells Rissy that it’s getting very late, even for a little night-owl. She kisses the top of Rissy’s head, hesitates for half a second in front of Nix, and kisses the crown of his head as well.

She calls out, “Good-night, love-birds!” from the stairs.

“She likes you.” Rissy’s cheeks are pink. She’s pleased that her young man got the stamp of approval from the woman who’s the closest thing she has to a mother.

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Don’t say that.”

Nix doesn’t say anything else. He kisses her instead.

At length, he speaks again. “I probably shouldn’t change her opinion of me by despoiling you on her sofa.”

“Probably not, but I still don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

Rissy looks up at him. He can hardly hear what she says but he can read the words on her lips. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Thank you for being here.” His voice is just as quiet as hers was. She bites her lip and he leans in to press his mouth to the tip of her nose and her eyelids. The salt from her tears is on his lips for the second time in one day. He was kidding about despoiling her in the front room; it’s hardly been three hours and they aren’t animals. He’s missed the affection and whispering back and forth. Finally, the clock chimes and it really is time to go.

Rissy follows him to the back door, holding his hand. They take their time saying good-night, lingering until Rissy yawns and Nix tells her to go to bed. He doesn’t leave until he hears the door lock. What he wouldn’t give to be on the other side of that door, to go up the stairs behind Rissy, to climb in bed with her just to sleep there.

He smokes all through his walk back under a sliver of moon. The smoke curls over his head and trails behind him before the air carries it away. What if he’d come to England single and unattached? Say everything else happened exactly the same, except he could have asked Rissy out that very first night. She could have met him at the train this morning and thrown herself into his arms without a second thought. Actually, that would probably be actively encouraged. He could have swung her around in a circle and kissed her right there in front of everyone. Someone probably would have taken photographs. Once the camera was gone, he could’ve taken her out and taken her home and then taken her to bed. They’d be able to spend the whole night there and wake up together in the morning.

Imagine if he’d married Rissy--he can almost see how it would’ve played out--he’d have wrangled a weekend pass into a week, married Rissy in short little ceremony, and then taken her someplace with room service. That way they wouldn’t have to leave their room until they wanted to. Unfortunately, it’s much more complicated than that. There’s nothing much he can do about it now though, so he tries to push it out of his mind. He’s nearly back to his billet. He hopes they’ve gone to bed; Nix doesn’t want to end the night with an uncomfortable conversation that would leave him feeling like a chastised kid.

This is stupid. Flirting with being caught might be fun on occasion, but it’d be a fucking inconvenience on a regular basis. He’s an adult man and if he and his girl want to enjoy each other’s company, they should be able to do that. He’ll find his own place. He can play at sneaking Rissy in and then they can play however they like. And sit and talk, read, listen to music. Take a nap. Share the bed, eat breakfast. It’ll be nice.

He’ll just have to find someone to come in and clean before he brings Rissy by. He doesn’t want to put her off.


End file.
